‘Not all thoughts are uttered to please,’ Rise said. ‘This does not diminish their value. Guilt is a powerful emotion… yes, I can see it gouging faces from walls, words from panels. If the god died, there is cause to ask why. Yet faith alone clearly proved insufficient sustenance, so we need not discuss its veracity, given the persistent presence of the Yan and Yedan Monasteries. And,’ he added, ‘the resurrection of this selfsame god.’
Cedorpul turned to Endest Silann. ‘Acolyte, we have dallied up here long enough. The others will be gathering — they will be looking for me. Before us now is a challenge and face it we must. Historian, fare you well. Oh, will you look in on the child?’
Rise Herat smiled. ‘I shall rattle the lock and demand entrance, and she shall cry me begone.’
Cedorpul’s nod was brisk. ‘That will do.’
High Priestess Emral Lanear stood beside Lord Anomander, awaiting the appearance of the Azathanai and her escort. Syntara had entered the inner chamber and now presumably communed with Mother Dark, although in truth Emral knew that such communion was notoriously frustrating. Perhaps an idealistic, romantic woman well and truly belonged at the heart of something as ephemeral as faith and worship. Perhaps indeed no virtue of pragmatism was possible in matters of the soul, and might even prove anathema to the very notion of the sacred.
Did not all prophets speak in riddles? Did not diviners slip like eels through an array of futures? Scriptures fraught with hard pronouncements might well be desired, but these were the ones most readily ignored, she suspected — although in truth she knew little of the religions of other peoples. One did not need to be a scholar to observe, however, that faiths were born of stone, water, earth, sun and wind, and should these forces prove harsh and inimical, so too the faith. Hard lives begat hard laws, not just in the necessities of living, but also in those of believing. She well understood that particular dialogue.
A river in seasonal flood, a forest to hold back the harshest winds, the plenitude of fish, crops and game: these did not describe a harsh world, a scrabble to live. The Tiste had traditionally recoiled from fast rules, as if such rules offended their nature. It was only war that changed this, and now, when Emral took a moment away from her mirror — when she looked upon the many now commanding positions of influence in the Citadel — she saw sharp edges in place of soft lines, and in a host of eyes there was stone instead of water.
Many were the natural forces to assail a people and give them shape; in her mind, she must now count among them war itself, no different from sun and wind.
‘They are coming,’ said Anomander. ‘Will you give greeting first?’
‘I see myself as more of a final escort into the presence of Mother Dark, Lord.’
‘Very well,’ he replied.
Motion at the far end of the corridor, and then a sudden bloom of light.
Ice cracked where it sheathed the stone walls, slid down in sheets. The glow surrounded the Azathanai, its golden hue deepening at its edges, reminding Emral of burning leaves. The power she unveiled as she drew closer made the walls groan and shift. Dust drifted down.
Emral found that she was trembling. It is a wonder that the Azathanai are not worshipped as gods.
Behind the approaching woman came Warlock Resh and Lieutenant Caplo Dreem. Neither man bore an air of confidence; instead, they looked beleaguered, exhausted by uncertainty.
With the light came warmth, cutting through the chilled air, devouring it. The Azathanai woman, slight of frame, attractive in a delicate way, her fair hair drifting in the swirling draughts, halted three strides from them. Her gaze fixing upon Anomander, she said, ‘Night will claim your skin. Before your eyes, darkness will be revealed. But I will make visible the defiance within you, as a gift.’
Anomander frowned. ‘Azathanai, I ask for no gifts. I offer no defiance.’
The woman’s gaze drifted from him and settled upon Emral. ‘Your sorrow, High Priestess, is lonely, and you are driven to share your truths. I advise against it. Give voice to your secrets and you will be rejected by those for whom you care the most.’
Heat flooded through Emral and she fought to control her tone. ‘Azathanai, your words of greeting are presumptuous.’
Thin brows arched. ‘I cannot be but what I am, High Priestess. I come to stir the waters, and for a time we shall all be blind. Will you now turn me away?’
Emral shook her head. ‘She wishes to see you, Azathanai.’
‘A desire I share. I have been called T’riss and this name I now take as my own. I do not know who I was before I was T’riss. I dwelt for a time in the Vitr. I am of the Azathanai, but I do not know what this means.’
‘If you are here,’ said Anomander, ‘seeking answers to questions, you may be disappointed.’
‘The Tiste view the Vitr as an enemy,’ said T’riss. ‘It is no such thing. It exists for itself. It is a sea of possibilities, of potential. It holds life in the manner that blood holds life.’
‘Did it create you?’ Anomander asked.
‘No.’
‘Yet it grows. It devours land — this indeed poses a threat to Kurald Galain.’
The woman shrugged. ‘The sea does not dream of you.’
Emral’s attention slid from the Azathanai’s unperturbed equanimity, past her to Warlock Resh. The man’s face was pale, drawn. ‘Warlock Resh, you have brought us this guest. She has awakened your ancient god. What would Mother Sheccanto have you say to the followers of Mother Dark?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied, as if choking out the word. ‘For the moment.’
‘I will see her now,’ said T’riss.
Emral stepped to one side. The Azathanai moved past her.
As Warlock Resh and Caplo fell in behind T’riss, Anomander’s hands snapped out, grasped Caplo by the man’s tunic, and threw him up against the wall. He held the monk pinned there, feet dangling.
Resh stumbled back in alarm, and then quickly shook his head and Emral saw the gleam of a knife blade half hidden in Caplo’s left hand — which vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Ahead, T’riss did not so much as turn round, instead pushing open the heavy door and striding into the chamber. The door, left open, reflected flashes of yellow light, and Emral could feel the Azathanai’s power pushing through the darkness.
Anomander was speaking to Caplo. ‘No blood to be spilled within, do you understand me?’
‘Un-unnecessary, Lord,’ Caplo said in a gasp.
Releasing the man to sag against the wall, Anomander faced Warlock Resh. ‘Inform Sheccanto that we have no interest in sharing her panic. And should she ever again send her prized assassin into audience with Mother Dark, I will see his head spiked to the Citadel’s wall, with hers to follow.’
‘I will convey your message, Lord,’ Resh replied, but his tone was distracted.
From the doorway, the light suddenly vanished. A moment later, High Priestess Syntara staggered into view. Her skin was the hue of alabaster, her dark eyes like pools of ink. When Emral moved to assist her, Syntara threw up a staying hand, and her face twisted into a mask of spite and venom. ‘Do not touch me, you wretched hag! I chose my gift! I chose it!’
Pushing past the others, she rushed down the corridor.
Groaning, Warlock Resh set his back to the wall as would a man with too much drink in him. Eyes squeezing shut, he said, ‘She’s gone.’
Emral did not need him to elaborate. Bitter cold air was rushing into the corridor from the sanctum. The audience was at an end, and T’riss had vanished. The aftermath of the power unveiled in the last few moments made the air fiercely bitter, almost caustic.
Anomander faced the warlock. ‘She was banished?’
Resh’s eyes started open. ‘Does she give you nothing? This precious new goddess of yours?’
‘She may well give,’ Anomander replied. ‘But I do not ask.’
‘Not banished. Time twisted in the sanctum — in there, they might well have spoken for days. There is no way of knowing. She brought the blood — I felt it — she brought vitr into that chamber. Lord, I did not know — it must have been within her.’